


Rotations

by imperfectkreis



Series: A Handbook of Images [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Includes Trespasser Content: So, say this asshole Inquisitor already cut off her own fucking arm before the Exhalted Council. Awkward, right? The Dread Wolf is going to be pissed. But without the Anchor, the Crossroads are not as welcoming as one might otherwise expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You think you're a liability when really you're the one holding it all together

Sabina lingers on the passing seconds as the carriages approach the gaudy oasis of Halamshiral. Or maybe, because this is Orlais, it is they who are exceedingly plain, submerged under waves of opulence. Soon enough they will disembark from the carts to ride triumphant through the gates of the Winter Palace on horseback. She, Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine. They have already changed from their more comfortable traveling clothes into the pressed, red jackets and black trousers that comprise the Inquisition formal uniform. 

Cassandra cannot ride beside them, speak her own name. Cassandra Pentaghast, as she once was, exists only in whispers, legends, and histories. Sometimes the three overlap.

Two years ago she was elected Divine. Sabina did not attend the coronation. She could not bear to watch as her friend became another woman, as she gave herself wholly to an institution that Sabina finds vile, dedicated to a Maker who never was.

Sabina could not foil the covert plot on Divine Victoria's life. So, instead, she did what she has always done best. She stole. She stole her dear friend from the shackles of the title she always begrudgingly wanted.

Tullia may have Cassandra's face, her shining dark hair, broad shoulders, and sturdy gait, but no one would mistake one for the other. Everyone at the Exalted Council will recognize her. No one will dare breathe a word.

"Admit it," Sabina smiles, "you're excited to see the look on everyone's faces."

Tullia grunts, turning her face to look out the window. Her long black hair falls in two plaits over her shoulders. Orlesian scenery leaves much to be desired. "Anyone of consequence knows I did not die. Everyone else suspects as much. I see no need for this charade."

Sabina waves off her concern, "and they will all turn a blind eye. They will accept your new identity, just as they pretend Vivienne has always been Divine Victoria I."

"Orlesians and their shell games," Cullen scoffs.

Sabina wishes to correct him, that these are the machinations of the Chantry, regardless of the nation each believer calls home. But in present company, such a comment will only breed strife between them when they must appear a unified front.

"Poor Seeker Pentaghast. So brave, so true," Sabina mocks, "until that terrible accident with the fade rift and the Tevinter magisters and, what was it? A fucking meteor for good measure."

"That is not the story," Tullia corrects, always a stickler for the truth.

"The particulars are not important. Only the woman you were is dead. The woman you were to become, assigned to someone else. There is nothing we can do now, but fight for the future."

The carriage stops. Sabina and Cullen clamber out, leaving Tullia alone. Leliana and Josephine emerge from the cart up ahead. Rushing to their carriage, Sabina sticks her head into the compartment. Her sister, Cassia, is inside, little Rufus squirming in her arms. He has been a mess this whole trip, crammed from cart to cart as they traveled from Skyhold. It is not fair to him, but Sabina could not stomach the thought of leaving him behind.

She holds him only for a moment, kissing him on both cheeks and telling him to be good, she loves him, very much. Behind her, Cullen waits his turn to dote for a moment on their son.

"We should not be long," Sabina tells Cassia. "It should only be introductions and bickering today. More bickering tomorrow. But the gardens should be lovely. I'm sure you'll both enjoy them."

Though Divine Victoria has reinstated the Circles, Cassia has been granted dispensation by the Chantry to remain in the service of the Inquisition. Her and a few dozen other mages deemed critical to Inquisition functioning. Sabina does not voice her concerns for what will happen to her sister if the order is dissolved. If Cassia will be carted back to the Circle, or if she will go willingly.

Reluctantly, Cullen passes Rufus back to Cassia. He wants to sit up in the carriage, rather than in her lap, voicing his displeasure. At two, he is no longer eager to be carried about like an infant. He wants to run and play. Sabina runs her fleshed hand over his darkening hair one last time before departing. 

"Let us get this over with. I suspect this will not be quite as exciting as the last time we were invited to the Winter Palace." She grabs the saddle of her Marches Ranger, pulling herself up with ease. 

Cullen laughs, "Not planning on climbing any trellises?"

She waves him off. "If they are not to be climbed, why do they have such perfectly placed handholds?"

\--

The Divine is much like the woman Vivienne was before assuming the position, measured, poised, and with a veneer that is blinding in its perfection. In many ways, she should have been heir apparent from the start, if not for the pesky notion of frost in her veins, beautiful magic seeping through her pores. And yet, she sees value in the very shackles that bound her for so long. 'A leash can be pulled from both ends,' she is fond of saying. But one side wears the chain around her neck, the other at her wrist. They are not the same.

Sabina says very little as the others speak. Ferelden finds the Inquisition dangerous, a threat on their borders. Orlais thinks of them as infants stumbling upon their father's sword, powerful and misguided. And the Chantry sees them as her perfected Hands, Left and Right both. Docile and true to the cause. Sabina cannot fathom from where Vivienne got that idea. Sabina flaunts her personal atheism like a lovely show mare expecting to be admired. 

Sabina taps the digits of her mechanical hand against the table. Josephine grabs her wrist, urging her to stop. The noise is a distraction.

Despite what her dear Ambassador thinks, Sabina pays attention to every word, even as they spin from the realm of the reasonable off into flights of inane, paranoid fancy. What would she even do after conquering Ferelden? Take up raising dogs?

"And what is more," the unfortunate looking Arl continues, "we have heard the Inquisitor no longer wields the power needed to close rifts." His eyes narrow in her direction. A challenge if there ever were one.

Sabina waves him off. "Show me your hole, Arl Teagan, and I will mend it."

Next to her, Josephine practically growls.

"Where is it, Arl?" She leans forward, her arms on the table.

Dozens of locations run through her mind. Truly, she panics just a touch. Could there be one she missed? A new rift sprung up because of the fragility between realms? But she cannot let her anxiety show. Only a handful of her top advisors know for certain that she lost the Anchor many months ago. There are rumors, of course there are, that her left arm is not the same, metal joints and leather tendons. The Arl can see himself that the hand is false, her amputation extends beyond the cuff of her coat, all the way past her elbow. But even a Ferelden knows he cannot accuse her directly.

Teagan does not give her the location of this open tear. It does not exist. She sits back in her chair.

A Chantry mother appears at her side. Nightingale has asked for her. Sabina leaves the delegates in Josephine's far more capable voice and slips away. She does not miss Josie's glare in her direction as she departs.

Divine Victoria calls a recess to the proceedings.

\--

Here she is, climbing the fucking trellises at Halamshiral, again. Though this time with Sera cursing on her heels. 

The Qunari soldier found on palace grounds, already bled out from his wounds, is disturbing enough. The strange scent in the air is worse. Like the sourness of the Fade multiplied ten times over. She asks the others who were there, who walked the Fade's soft ground, if they can smell it too. What a relief that they do, that it is not all in her head.

She and Sera follow the trail of blood up the trellises to an open palace window. All this fucking time they could have just taken the stairs.

Inside the dusty, once-boarded room, an Eluvian shimmers, its surface like petal-dyed quicksilver. Just as dangerous in its blending of beauty and poison. 

"Get me Dorian and," she bites the tip of her tongue, weighing her options. "Krem. Instruct Tullia to keep an eye on Bull."

"You don't honestly think?" Sera's voice wavers.

"I do not know what to think."

Sabina waits before the mirror, watching the surface shimmer like a mocking heartbeat.

\--

Krem is not Cas-Tullia. Sabina catches herself in the incorrect name, even as the fires of battle stoke around them. He is skilled, having quickly adapted to the sword and shield over his preferred maul. Perhaps he takes more risks than Tullia would, but they are ever fewer and further between. He has learned to be cautious.

Sabina worries his alliance is still to Bull. And to whom Bull owes his allegiance, she is unsure. But Krem is still Tevene, even if only a fraction. She cannot imagine he would abide the Qun. That must be enough. Having burned too many bridges, she lacks other options. She stands in the wake of her own flaming catastrophe.

The Qunari they face are skilled warriors, assassins, archers. But they fight with predictable precision. Krem deflects what damage he can while Sabina and Sera make chaos. Sabina scatters caltrops armed with little claws. Her own design. They catch and spin with their victim's own momentum. As the Qunari rush through their agony, their jaws twist tighter. Vicious, nasty little things. Simple and brutal.

Sera tosses flasks of acid and flame into the thatch of gray bodies, shouting at Krem to move just in time. Krem curses back that all rogues are bonkers. They'd just as soon get him killed as the enemy.

He blocks the strike of a massive axe with his shield, the sharp edge denting the metal. Sabina ghosts behind the the Qunari wielding it, running him through on her daggers. To pull them back out, she puts her foot in the warrior's back for leverage. Just as soon, she is gone again.

Sabina quips, invisible, that Tullia doesn't complain and Krem's protests die out. Well enough she knows Dorian's barrier will keep their contraptions and concoctions from injuring their defender.

They run through the next mirror, into the next dream. Sabina knows well enough they are awake. That the ruins around them are no illusion. The Crossroads lead to destinations, distant as they may be. Each plane is a reality.

She reads the mosaic panels on the Dread Wolf. A savior and a cheat. A selfish man playing at hero, meddling in circumstances at the very edge of his ability. All too well, Sabina knows the feeling.

\--

The green mass at the center of the room is of the Fade, but is not the Fade itself. Tendrils of sparks reach for them, sputtering and clawing at their skin as they rush past. When demons burst forth, Sabina screams to run. Whatever this wound is, she cannot heal it. She cannot soothe the pain of intersection. Not anymore.

The green slicks around her prosthesis, climbing up her left arm like a vine trying to capture the sun, hold solar warmth in its grasp. She wants to scream that she does not belong to them anymore. To the Maker, the Fade, the fucking Creators. She is not theirs!

But the contamination touches her as if it remembers her as the lover she once was. Its beacon in the night.

She will not yield to its touch.

"Run! Run! Run!" It is the only word that still carries any importance. They must make it through the next mirror.

The surface breaks, Sera darting through first. When Dorian pushes against the pane next, it does not yield to his touch. Shit.

Sabina slashes at an entity that is not there, her blade slicing through nothing but ephemera. The green stays latched to her, but she drags herself to the Eluvian. Krem is pressing against it with both gauntleted hands. It is glass. 

"No!" Sabina goes to smash it in her frustration. In time, Dorian catches her hand.

"With it broken, we certainly cannot follow her."

Sabina snarls. "SERA! Sera can you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Inquisitor." Dorian's eyes are wide.

When she looks at her body, she sees the mist snaking round, wrapping her in its embrace. It is cold against the fire of her skin. They cannot stay here. She does not know what it is trying to her.

"We go back the other way." With great pain, she tears her eyes from the Eluvian. She will not lose Sera. Not like this. Not ever.


	2. Lots of repetition because at least it keeps her moving ever forward

Sera waits. Not like that is what she wants to be doing with her time. She wants to be filling baddies with arrows and throwing honestly quite scary brews and screaming up a storm. She wants to take her frustration out on that mirror that a second ago was clearly all wobbly but now is just glass. Throwing herself against it and screaming big and bold seems a pretty fine idea until she realizes two things.

One, if the glass breaks she's like, ninety-six percent sure that no one is coming in or going out through the fancy magic mirror.

Two, she can hear Qunari voices. All deep and gruff and one of them is honestly pretty sexy but Sera knows the difference between a gray girl who is easy on the eyes and a proper, proper Qunari who'll as soon try to convert her as run her through on the pointy end.

So, she's gotta wait.

She rations her powders, staying visible when she's not so nervous, just keeping her slim body pressed close to the rock at her back. But sometimes, yeah, she hears a bit of a crash in the distance and it's not so much that she's scared, it's that she wants to survive. Sera wants to live and drink mead and sing and see Lace again. Hold her pretty face between her hands and kiss her until she's all laughing and red. Not just her hair but her cheeks and neck and breasts too. Lace gets pinky-red everywhere if she laughs for too long. Sera fumbles with the ring she wears on a cord around her neck. Lace wears hers there too. Gets in the way on their hands, what with the bowstrings and all.

Sera waits until she just can't take it anymore. Until she's really certain, not that she's been abandoned, because Lady Trevelyan wouldn't do that. She wouldn't just leave her behind. But certain that Lady Trevelyan can't get to her. So the only solution is for her to get to Lady Trevelyan.

All the other mirrors have led to even more mirrors. Down and down a chain of gates they trespass through. This place is different though. Dark and stony, like the Deep Roads were. Sera keeps one hand in her pouch as she creeps.

There are lights, but they are few and far between. She keeps her other hand against the cool, rough stone as she moves forward, careful not to make a noise. She doesn't have those elfy eyes that see in the dark. She doesn't think elfy eyes are real and the Dalish are just pulling everyone's leg. Trying to convince them they've got more claim than city girls like her.

Qunari voices carry, bouncing off the walls, filling up the cavern like boiling water spilling out of the pot. 

Each cavern is big, she thinks the next one is even bigger. Hard to tell, but there's wind when there shouldn't be any wind because Sera is more convinced than ever that she's underground. 

Where there are voices there is also light. Sera crouches at the edge of the lit opening, looking down onto yet another chamber below. It didn't occur to her there might be a below to the below.

The Qunari laborers, she doesn't know the names for them but she knows the Qunari have about ten names between them and none of them sound right, roll big barrels into place. A fit woman, really terribly fit, stands on the scaffolding above the rest, barking orders in Qunlat. Next to her, a big beefy bloke in chains. Sera doesn't need to see the stitches to know. Scubarats? Suckublast?

Saarebas. 

There's one word she understands because fit-lady (aren't all grey ladies fit? Like, really fucking stunning. Like four Laces but honestly Sera still likes her one Lace better than all the Qunari tits in the world) says it in Trade.

Lyrium.

And then the big ol barrels make sense. Because Sera doesn't know Qunlat but she knows gaatlok. Blazing fire and panic in the blink of an eye. No magic necessary.

Lyrium and gaatlok and Saarebas.

Yeah. Not good, not good. Sera curls her fingers around the lip of the opening, knuckles going lily-white.

For a moment she thinks she's been spotted, but it's only the head-lady tilting her head from side to side, working out a crick in her neck. If the situation weren't so desperate, Sera would laugh that a Qunari is subject to something as banal as sore muscles.

Viddasala. They call her Viddasala. 

Sera knows she's got no knack for long term planning. She's an in and out sorta woman. Hard and fast and over, onto the next thing. 

Leaning against the cave wall, she holds fiercely to her ring. It leaves a circle indent on her palm. 

She doesn't know what's about to happen if she blows up those barrels before they get in the right place. She does know that if she does nothing, the Qunari accomplish what they want. And what they want typically is one of two things.

One, stay way up north and watch the rest of 'em burn.

Other option, invasion. Sera knows about Kirkwall, she's seen Tevinter. She knows the Qunari are no better than Southerners. Everyone just needs to let everyone else fuck up their own shite in peace.

She's gotta find a way down to the mines.

\--

Getting the primers is easy as can be. The Qunari aren't expecting her, they're not expecting anyone. She slips past them, quiet as she can manage. 

They Qunari are big, all of 'em. Not that Sera didn't already know that. And Bull is a particularly big'un. But trying to ghost between their sturdy bodies gives her a new appreciation of how much space they take up.

Lighting the first cache isn't much trouble either. They're still not expecting an invisible interloper. Sera slips away and watches the platform go up. BANG, BANG, BANG! Rock and wood, bits of gray too, fly everywhere.

The second cache is easier still, because a bunch of Qunari who are supposed to be guarding the second batch run towards the sound of the exploding first. So that at least buys her time to slip in behind.

'Slip in behind.' Hah!

By the third, it's hysteria. Well, as much chaos as Qunari can muster, which amounts to a whole bunch of yelling Sera can't understand and a closing of ranks. She barely squeaks out with her head on straight.

So then, the problem of the fourth and final rears its ugly head. She's got enough powder left for two rounds of stealth. After that? Well fucked. Well fucked. Maybe they'll be good to her because she's pretty and she's an elf and the Qunari just love converts. But naw, cause they'll never love Sera. Just like they never really loved Bull. Can't suppress people like that. Can't make people just into bodies with regulated names. Ain't that easy. And there isn't a cunt in the world that'll convince Sera otherwise. Because she knows under the Qun you don't really get a choice in which cunt you get to stick your face into. Sera likes choice.

Right, so she's gotta light the fourth and she's gotta make it back out and there aren't other options. 

She throws a fire flask into the ranks surrounding the last barrels. She runs. Not towards the gaatlok, but to the other side of the outcropping. She throws another flask. Now, for a blessed second, the Qunari might be fooled there's more than one of her.

Lighting the third flask, she sprints towards the gaatlok platform. She doesn't stealth. The  
Qunari that hold their position, the ones that aren't on fire right this bloody second, see her.

Arrows, she's gotta dodge the arrows first. Easier to hit things standing up, harder to hit them close to the ground. She rolls along the stone, slipping past the warrior, his axe held high. It'd cut her in two.

She shoves her flask in the mouth of the explosives barrel. The primer isn't happening under these conditions. Once done, she stealths. The axe swing nearly clips her on its arc back around.

Running to the edge of the blast radius, she's gotta calm her breathing. Her lungs feel ready to burst. 

The Qunari fan out, knowing the gaatlok cannot be salvaged. They walk right past her, assuming their little terror is running away, fast as her legs can carry her. Panic, panic, don't panic! Sera holds very still. She follows behind them with careful steps, rather than running like the scared nug they must take her for.

\--

Sera can't lose the Qunari, not really. With the explosions, there are plenty of dead. But there are enough left standing that they spread out through the tunnels, looking for their uninvited guest. Sera picks off three more. Arrows through the throat. She doesn't fire unless she can make the shot. Nothing teaches aim better than scarcity of ammunition.

There has got to be another bloody mirror. There is always a bloody mirror. But Sera realizes she's double backed on herself. The chambers start looking familiar, even the pitch black ones.

It's the same Eluvian she came through in the fucking first place. Only, now it is open, glistening.

It speaks to her. Sera doesn't want to listen. She doesn't want to understand because it's not Trade. It's not Trade but it doesn't shut up. And she knows every word of that wretched elven language. Not the Dalish one, fragmentary and cobbled. But the one before. Like the Mythalees. With their overwrought face paint. And their impossibly tall bodies. 

It tells her she's done well, so well, Child. It's time to return. 

Sera finally sobs in frustration. She was led here. She was manipulated. More than anything, she wants to pretend that she doesn't know why. Why she made it through the Eluvian and the others were locked on the other side. Why she could see the flowers bloom in the Crossroads. Why the Inquisitor saw autumn, while she saw spring.

Tears still in her eyes, she runs through the pane. When she crashes out on the other side, she is back at Halamshiral. Two Inquisition agents stand watch. One comes to help her up off the ground, the other runs to find Lady Trevelyan. 

"Oi! Lace too," she yells after him.

She's wobbly on her feet, but it'll pass. Now her frustration bleeds through to anger, red and white and hot through her veins. 

It must be late, because Lady Trevelyan's eyes are bleary, her nightclothes rumpled. She wraps her arms around Sera. Worried, she was so worried. The Eluvian wouldn't let them back to the Crossroads. Morrigan has been called, but with no reply. They don't know where she is. Even if she could be found, there is nothing to indicate Morrigan would come.

Lace stands in the doorway, her fingers curled against the frame. Breaking free from Sabina's hold, Sera runs for her wife, gathers her close and streams her own apologies. Lace always thought her too rash, moving too quickly rather than waiting back. Difference in style, that's all, one that nearly left her in the in-between spaces of the universe.

Laughing into Sera's hair, Lace calls her silly. Says she always knew she'd find her way back. From the way Lace's voice wavers, Sera knows well enough to lie.

"Yeah, yeah, I always knew I would make it back too. I'm good. I'm good. Good, good, good," Sera laughs.

\--

Sera pants, her legs spread at the edge of the bed, Lace's fiery hair loose and tickling against her thighs. Her perfect nose, pressed against her belly as she licks Sera, long and wet. Sera squirms, grabbing hold of Lace's shoulders, digging down her nails in pale, freckled skin. Connecting all the dots on blooming flowers of their intimacy. 

Okay, okay, so I-thought-you-were-dead-but-now-I'm-totally-stoked-you're-alive sex is great. Bloody amazing.

Lace presses her hands to the tops of Sera's legs, strokes down to her knees and then back up to the junction of her hips. Sera curls her long legs round Lace's back. Lace always says she's all legs with a mop of blonde hair stuck on top. Right now she just feels like a tangle of expectation.

Sera focuses on the pricks of pleasure against her clit. The warm wash of pleasure as it chases along her frame, curling in her stomach and unfurling into solid spokes in her limbs. Her mouth falls open and she's loud, loud, loud. Crying out her orgasm, bucking against Lace's face. 

Flopping back against the mattress, Sera breathes deep. She waits for Lace to climb up her body, spreading thick thighs on either side of Sera's narrow waist. Sera grabs at Lace's breasts, rolling her thumbs over pink nipples. Way, way more than a handful, Lace's breasts are full and soft and hang just right out of the Inquisition uniform. Sera tries to bundle them up, liking how they spill out of her hands.

"I love you, you know that?" Sera parts her lips, trying to think of prettier words to say, "I really fucking love you!"

Lace laughs. "Is that so, Sera Harding?"

Sera trembles all the way to her toes. Yeah, yeah, that's her name too.

"Yeah."

She slips two fingers into Lace, curling them just so. Just like she knows Lace likes. Lace raises her hips, shoves them back down, while Sera rolls her clit with her thumb. Sera rests her other hand at Lace's hip, too enraptured to touch. Her tits bounce as she bounces and it's nice, nice, nice. Wet around her fingers and gloriously beautiful in her lap. Sera watches her come apart in slow motion. In a haze of sweat and stars.

Afterwards they lie together, Sera still rolling patterns against Lace's shoulders. 

"What happened?"

Sera's not so very sure she knows how to explain. Or where. She gave a proper report already. Lace was in the room for that. But that's also not what her wife is asking.

"It was, elfy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos much appreciated <3


	3. The delirious autumn

There is no better stress relief than this. Her hands at her husband's shoulders, his wet mouth sucking at her nipple as she sits on his hips, his other hand at her waist. It never went back, her waistline, to how trim it was before. She's marked now with scars of carrying their child, woven through with those of battle. When her steps were too slow.

Sabina dips her fingers into the scar on Cullen's chest. The jagged edges that mended, but didn't disappear. They are delicate crenellations against her hands. He still comes apart like a budding flower. Like she could see inside him.

She has seen inside him, though only for a moment, before turning away. When Coryphaeus' dragon bisected him. As he has seen inside her, cutting away her arm. Taking each other apart as the Inquisition feeds from their bodies.

Sweat runs down the bridge of her nose, falling into Cullen's golden hair. It doesn't look so very bright in the dark. In the light he is rose gold. Pristine. The Orlesian nobles speak of him like he is sunlight personified. It does not matter to them that the Inquisitor and Commander are married. Such things are quite easily dealt with. The flippant way she told Cullen as much made him cringe at the time.

"You're beautiful," she whispers in his ear, dragging the tips of her nails across his chest as she forces him back against the mattress. He is pliant at her hands, as always.

"How do you want me?" he asks.

She smiles in response. "As you are, as you hope to be, as my husband and my friend. The father of my child." In little bursts she slips down the length of his body until she kneels between his spread thighs. 

Curling between his legs, she sucks at his cock, making it saliva-slick. He's hard enough already from their teasing, the stop and go of their intimacy. She takes it nearly all the way down, keeping her lips curled over her sharp teeth. With time, she has gotten better at this, at giving rather than only taking in haste. Cullen hisses when she reaches the root. She sucks him until his hands shake in the mess of her hair.

"Not yet," Sabina warns.

She pulls his knees up, so he opens to her. He is needy, panting, ready for release when she is ready to offer it. Curling between his legs, Sabina dips her mouth to his entrance, lapping to prepare him. Cullen’s hands curl in the borrowed bedsheets. He is strong enough to tear them to shreds. Tear her to shreds, if he wills it. But he won’t.

Licking him open, Sabina coaxes Cullen to relax, relax. He stays hard, his cock twitching against his flat stomach, touching up against the edge of his scar. 

“Good boy, good,” she kisses the insides of his thighs, feeling his fine hairs against her mouth. 

The oil vial is somewhere in the sheets. She has to pull away to find it. Uncapping the bottle, Sabina wets her mechanical fingers, flexing them to make sure they glide smooth. They have done this a few times by now, using her false hand rather than her flesh one. Cullen says it is different, but not unwelcome. The metal fingers warm with his body heat, always staying a bit cool. She misses the feel of him closing around her, the tightness, the swell of his breath. But she’ll learn to enjoy this as well.

She slips one finger inside of him, keeping tucked between his legs, liking the pressure as his thighs flex around her body. Cullen works open, bit by bit, rolling his hips against her, silently asking for more. Sabina takes his cock back into her mouth, sucking him with long, slow strokes while her fingers work quickly. Her other hand presses against his scar, holding him in place.

Well enough she knows he’s on the edge. She doesn’t need his keening whines to know. But she likes them, nonetheless.

Cullen sobs when he comes. She won’t ask why. There are reasons enough. His cum is bitter in her mouth. She crawls back up his body, putting their lips together in a kiss that is perverse and lovely at the same time. His cum passes between them; she makes him swallow it down. When his eyes close, she withdraws to head for the basin.

He rolls over to watch her wash her hands. She must dry them thoroughly now, to prevent the seep of rust between the joints. Dagna is working on another prototype, one not so very susceptible to the elements. For now, Sabina must be facetious in her arm's care. Once it is dry, she begins oiling the joints.

"You never invested so much in my aftercare," Cullen smiles against his pillow, half of his face pressed into it.

She waves him off with her right hand, "and you are not one to accept it."

Still, he opens his arms to invite her back to bed. They slot their bodies together, her leg sandwiched between both of his. She puts her head at his shoulder. His heartbeat is slow. In time, hers will match it.

"Would you want another?" Cullen asks.

"Another what?"

"Child."

She laughs against his chest. "Cassia is already becoming impatient with Rufus. She wants to go live her life, not tend to him. I cannot blame her. Though I worry what will happen, if she is not close."

"That she will return to the Circle?"

"Mmh," she grunts.

"If it is her choice?"

"Cullen, she was six when my parents sent her away. Thirteen years she lived under the watch of templars. It would never truly be a choice." It is not a topic she wishes to discuss further. Cullen will only defend the templars, even if he does not intend to.

They ignore the gulf that has always stood between them. It is easy enough with their expectations pressed close.

\--

"So what you are saying, Sera, is the Eluvians will only let elves use them?" Sabina questions.

Sera shifts from boot to boot. "Well, I'm not certain, certain. But yeah, it was you, me, Dorian, CremCrem. And who got through? Just me. One of these things is not like the others? So I don't really know. We could try kicking Varric through? Or Lace? Or Bull?"

Sabina sighs. They must get back to the Crossroads. After Sera's report, she is more concerned than before with the Qunari threat. Lyrium, gaatlok, Viddasala. She can't add the pieces up without returning. But if the mirrors only accept elves now, they are going to be in trouble.

"Let's get Lace. No Bull." Varric is too valuable a political force now as Viscount to risk him. She thinks over her options, "bring Dalish too. Tell Dorian to keep Bull entertained. We already know he can't get through."

Bull might be able to use the Eluvian. But Sabina does not care one way or the other. She cannot bring him. She will not risk it.

"Right, right!" 

\--

Sabina has an unavoidable meeting with the Divine. Vivienne, like a true friend and not a viper, is holding off Ferelden and Orlais as best she can. But the Council cannot drag on indefinitely. 

By the poolside they drink wine. Sabina dips her bare feet into the water, letting the jets burst against her toes.

"My dear, I am doing my best. But you must provide me with something, lest my statements to the others be preposterous."

Sabina drinks too fast, swallowing down in big gulps. Vivienne remembers that she prefers white to red. And the wine is lovely-sweet, just at the tip of cloying. 

"We are trying something after we are finished here. To get back into the Crossroads. All we know is that the Qunari are planting explosives. They may already be in the Palace."

"Yes, but we are already in the process of sweeping the grounds. Tell me something else, Inquisitor."

Sabina searches through the pretty fog of pretty wine for the right bit of information to disclose. "The Qunari have not used Lyrium. Before now. Their mages," she shakes her head. "They're not like ours."

"That is why they stitch their lips closed. Because they know not how to teach them properly, ward their mages from possession. We would never allow such barbarism in the south."

No, barbarism of different flavors for different races.

Sera bounces in to save her, Lace attached to her arm. Lace is geared for battle, if this idea of Sera's works. They still haven't figured out how to get Sabina through the glass. Perhaps it is only Sera who is chosen. But by whom?

"Dalish is meeting us there." Sera throws her fist in the air, "rogue party!"

\--

The Eluvian stands before them. Silent as it has been since Sera last fell through. She steps towards it, and the glass reacts to her presence, shimmering and bending. Sera touches it, letting just the tips of her fingers slide past before withdrawing.

"Okay," she turns her head away, "who's next?"

Sabina knows the look on Sera's face, she's listening to something Sabina can't hear.

The Eluvian reacts much the same to Dalish, quivering on contact, prisms spiraling outward. 

"Sera," Dalish begins, "who is that?"

Sera shakes her head. "I don't know."

"What is it saying?" Sabina asks. This is a horrible idea. But she has thought of no alternatives. 

"It would translate as, 'return home, child,'" Dalish explains. 

Harding steps forward, pressing her hand to flat glass. It does not yield to her.

"Well, fuck," Sabina tears at her scalp. "We still haven't solved the problem of how I'm getting through either."

"Maybe we can trick it?" Sera grabs hold of Sabina's arm, pulling her close. "Step with me, like we're one person. Wrap up around me, like, I don't know, a hug? Or a really close shag?" 

Sabina holds her chest tight to Sera's back, awkwardly resting her head on top of Sera's mop of blonde hair. They reach their arms forward together to the pane, it shimmers, it breaks, and Sabina's hand passes through as well.

"Okay, it's awkward. But we do that to get me through. Harding, you should stay behind, we can't take such a great risk."

Harding nods her head in acknowledgement. 

"Inquisitor?" Bethany Hawke stands in the doorway, her long, dark hair tied tight in a bun. "Might I try?"

"It does not accept humans anymore, only elves" Sabina states plainly.

"I know, Krem told me, only, my father was elf-blooded. Indeed, it means I am only a small fraction, but maybe it would make a difference?"

There is no harm in trying. Bethany holds her hand in front of her, with light steps she approaches the Eluvian. "A dear friend of mine mended one. With my sister's help. I never got to see it work."

It doesn't shiver in the same way, almost as if it is hesitant to accept her. But Bethany's fingers dip through the surface, come away clean. She smiles, her cheeks flushing. "I can hear it too. But it's all garbled for me. I can't understand it."

Sabina breaths a sigh of relief, they are still without a defender, but four is a better number than three. "So, two mages, two rogues. Get ready to run, a lot."

"Oi," Dalish smirks, "who's this other mage about to keep the enchanter company?"

Setting her lips together, Sabina tangles her body around Sera's, prepared to trick the force keeping her out of the Crossroads. The deception works, and Sabina is again occupying the space between worlds.

The Crossroads are quiet. There is no evidence of the Qunari breaking through, though the blood of the single injured soldier still stains some of the steps. Otherwise, there is nothing before them but mirrors and an endless autumn. 

Dalish reaches forward to one of the barren trees, "the flowers. They're beautiful."

Sabina sees nothing but dead branches. She turns to Bethany for confirmation. 

"I do not see them either, Inquisitor." Bethany shakes her head.

If something were to happen to Bethany, Krem would fucking kill her. But it is all the more likely that whatever is keeping humans out with get her first. At least there is the hint of something in Bethany to trick the Spirit.

"Sera, which Eluvian?"

Sera closes her eyes as if listening. Her guide may lead to their demise, but there is not another option. "That one, up there. Vir Dirthara." She points to where they must go.

"Okay, okay." Sabina steps forward, hoping that their cleverness can save them.


End file.
